


How To Make A Perfect Chicken Sammich

by elynne



Category: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Genre: Other, PACMURDERMECH, actually really mild violence compared to the source material, cartoonishly excessive violence, no really this will probably offend you, this is terrible and offensive and should probably not be read by anybody ever, tw: homophobic slurs, yes you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 10:55:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elynne/pseuds/elynne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The secret ingredient is bigot meat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How To Make A Perfect Chicken Sammich

At the end of a line that stretched forward around a corner and into the unknowable distance, a conversation was taking place.

"Whut're we standin' in line fer?" asked one fine specimen of humanity, wearing a grease-stained t-shirt that featured a picture of the current president of the United States sporting a mustache resembling that of a long-dead, much-despised historical dictator. His baseball cap was emblazoned with symbols and letters spelling out "I -HEART- U. S. A."

The man standing in front of him looked back, rolling his eyes with a disapproving click of his tongue. "We're supporting this restaurant's right to... say that faggots are bad, the guvment and them liberals are trying to take away alla our rights and make us all into homos. It's about stopping the faggots from taking over the country."

"Oh, right!" The first man grinned, revealing several missing teeth. "Fuck them fuckin' homos, right? An' I'm gonna get a chicken sammich, too!"

"We're all getting chicken sammiches," the second man said sternly. About twenty years older than the first, his short brown hair was noticeably thinning on the crown of his head, which he was habitually trying to cover by growing one side long and gluing the strands down across the bald spot. He was much more neatly dressed, with a long-sleeved button-up shirt, a pair of brown jeans, large leather boots, and a bolo necktie. "Jesus would want us to get chicken sammiches today. Jesus hates fags, and we're getting chicken sammiches because we hate fags, and we love Jesus."

"Praise Jesus!" shouted a woman who had just joined the line behind them, pushing a stroller and trailing a long line of pre-adults in varying stages of undress and uncleanliness. "If we don't do somethin' to stop them librals and their faggot-lovin' ways, they're gonna outbreed us, take over the country, and then God will smite us all! He's gonna smite them homos anyway, but we don't want him smitin' us, so we better get us some chicken sammiches!" Her horn-rimmed glasses glinted with triumphant righteousness.

"And fries!" "And a shake!" "And ice cream!" "And a pony!" "And a Happy Noodle Boy Action Figure!" "I gotta use the bafroom!"

"That's right," the balding man said, nodding vigorously. "You tell him, sister. We're all in this together, aren't we? We are the beloved, righteous children of God! We shall not let the Devil's sinners triumph and drag our beautiful country into the mud!" Several other people in line were shouting along with the familiar catchphrases. "Praise Jesus!" "Hallelujah!" "Death to the unrighteous!"

"Yeah, fuck them sinners, an' the Devil too," the man with the baseball cap said distractedly. "Fuck 'em all... buncha fuckin' fuckers." The balding man frowned at him, but he didn't notice, intently inspecting the neon green dress that was trying valiantly to cover most of the woman's body. She did notice his attention, however, and gave what was probably intended to be an alluring smile which looked more like a ghastly, death's-head smirk while patting her carefully shellacked and bleached perm. 

A couple of children who had been trailing at the end of the line, squabbling and screaming amongst themselves, fell silent and looked up as a new person approached and took a position at the end. The stranger said and did nothing, only stood with his hands folded behind his back, peering at the selection of humanity arrayed before him with an oddly intent expression. Some kind of feral, animal instinct prompted them to scoot away from the man, huddling around their mother for protection.

Noticing a change in the behavior of her flock, the woman blinked, then looked back at the man who had given the line its terminal punctuation. He had the deathly pallor of a thing that lives in darkness, accentuated by disturbingly large, pale eyes. His clothing was unrelieved black, making his body from the neck down a slender, sharp-edged shadow, even in the harsh noonday sun. Under a mop of scraggly, short black hair, his empty expression was strangely foreboding. 

"Who're you?" she asked, adjusting her horn-rimmed glasses. The men in line before her peered around her ample neon-green form, while her children crouched around her legs in a cluster of grimy limbs and large, staring eyes.

The newcomer gazed back blankly for several seconds, letting a silence stretch like melting caramel in the hot summer air. "Me?" he finally responded, in a voice that made the listeners shudder, though they could not have said why. "I'm... just a guy. I'm here to get a chicken sammich. I'm hungry."

"You don't look like good, God-fearing people," the balding man accused. "Wearing all black... you look like a Devil-worshiper. Probably a homo, too." The adults' expressions were quickly becoming more hostile.

"A... homo? No. And I do not worship the Devil. He's an asshole." The pale man tilted his head a little, as if trying to focus on the people in front of him more clearly. "I don't fear God, either, you are correct there. I'm pretty sure the thing in my basement could kick God's ass." 

"What'd you say?" the man with the baseball cap said belligerently. He took a step forward, fists clenched. 

"I think you heard me," the man in black replied evenly. "I'm sure I spoke quite clearly. Did you not understand me? Is English not your primary language?"

"Are you sayin' I'm a spic??" His face reddening in an alarming way, veins pulsing in his forehead, the man with the baseball cap advanced another step. Angry mutters were beginning to break out in the line behind him. "You some kinda smooth-talkin libral faggot? You are, ain'tcha? Yer trying to take away our rights! Well, fuck you, buddy!" Lurching forward, he tried to loom over the stranger. The fact that he only came up to the pale man's nose seemed to enrage him even more. "Fuck you! You don't get a chicken sammich today! You just take yer faggot ass back to yer basement and fuck off! You got no place here with these decent folk!"

"I would advise you to step away. I strongly dislike it when people get so close to me." The pale man's voice was growing calmer, losing all inflection. "Bad things can happen. It's not my fault if bad things happen. They just... happen. You don't want that."

"Fuck you, you fuckin' fuck!" the hatted man screamed, flecks of spittle spraying out onto the stranger's face. As they struck, his expression changed. If his expression had been intense before, now it concentrated further, and seemed to become a physical blade that cut into the head of the man standing in front of him, deflating his anger and shoving him away. 

"Bad things happen... well, I suppose if bad things are going to happen anyway, I might as well enjoy them." The pale man smiled. By now, most of the crowd that wasn't hidden by the corner of the building up the line was staring at the confrontation, and all of them gasped at his wide-eyed, deranged grin. "And I've been wanting to test this out. Funtime!" Bringing his hands out from behind his back, he held up a small yellow sphere in one hand, marked only with two black dots for eyes and a straight black line for a mouth.

"It's a Pokeball!" one of the children squealed, sounding equally terrified and delighted.

"Not exactly, small human grub," the man said. Shadows began to collect, flickering like black lightning around his form and the object in his hand. "But there is a monster inside--and that monster is--me!"

The shadows writhed around the sphere, which exploded in his hand. 

It was difficult to keep track of what happened next. The yellow ball seemed to unravel, but as it did, instead of shrinking, it grew with breathtaking speed. Before the watching crowd had time to react, it had expanded to the size of a small car, enveloping the pale man inside. A hatch opened in its back, uncurling a chain of spiked metal which sprouted jointed legs, ballooning up into a sinuous centipede body that sprawled down the rest of the length of the block. The black eyes stared pitilessly at the people in front of it, but the black line of the mouth dropped open as if hinged, revealing a wedge-shaped maw full of jagged metal teeth. A deafening roar blasted out of the mouth, along with a gust of greasy, hot air, as several of the tooth-blades began spinning.

Every child in the line, acting on some kind of pre-adult instinct, scattered and fled silently, like cockroaches under a kitchen light. The adults, on the other hand, simply stood and stared, shocked immobile and uncomprehending of the bizarre monster that had manifested so quickly before them. 

The massive yellow head darted forward and crunched down on the woman in the neon green dress. With one massive bite of its jaws it enveloped her completely, along with half of the stroller she'd been pushing, spilling canned goods everywhere. When its mouth opened again a second later, it was to reveal a mass of blood and gore which was quickly being further shredded and pushed back into the machine-monster's guts. A second bite took the man with the baseball cap, cutting off his stream of expletives mid-"faggot." 

Grinding gears propelled it forward with impossible speed, its mouth opening and closing mechanically in a regular beat. Every bite devoured another member of the herd that had been waiting, patiently and conveniently aligned. The people in line barely had time to register their danger, much less flee, before it was upon them. Its innards churned, steam venting off of it with an eerie, wailing ululation as it processed its grisly meal. Thumps and whirrs marked the process of its victims, until eventually a hatch opened at the very tail end of the creature and deposited a patty-shaped lump of deep-fried material. As it worked its way down the line, chewing through the panicked, helpless herd, it left a trail of piping warm clumps that looked and smelled rather like the chicken sammiches that were being purveyed by the restaurant at the head of the line. Children and stray dogs re-emerged in its wake, drawn irresistibly by the smell, and fell to fighting over and devouring the tempting morsels.

There wasn't much screaming--few people had time to get out more than half a shriek before they were consumed by the terrifying machine--but there was quite a lot of blood, spattering liberally on the sidewalk and walls of the buildings around. From inside the monster's head, a high-pitched giggling could be faintly heard over the grinding of gears and cries of its victims.

In a surprisingly short time, the rampaging monstrosity came to the doors of the restaurant itself. The huge yellow head didn't pause an instant, but instead took a huge bite from the walls and continued chewing down the line, right up to the counter. A cluster of slack-faced, dull-eyed employees glanced up, were sprinkled with drops of blood, then looked back down to their tasks. Finally, after the last customer had been engulfed, the head stopped, mouth closing, and began to shrink. The cashier watched incuriously as it folded in on itself, retracting the ghastly production line of its body, until all that was left was a thin, pale man, dressed in black, spattered with a few flecks of blood, holding a yellow sphere in his hand. A pack of homeless people had gathered in his wake and peered through the hole in the building's walls, then scurried forward to grab and gorge themselves on the piping hot patties strewn about on the floor. 

"Good afternoon, oh noble purveyors of fine processed food products!" the man said, his voice trembling slightly through an alarming, manic grin. "I have braved my way to the counter of your esteemed establishment in order to purchase one chicken sammich with extra pickles, one order of your delicious waffle fries, and one large choco-bang milkshake!"

The blank-eyed lackey punched his order into the register and looked up with a complete lack of expression. "That'll be six seventy-five," he said in a toneless drone.

"I will produce this amount of coinage... in, uh... just a minute," the man said, shuffling through the pockets of his knee-length black jacket. "I seem to have... uh, forgotten my wallet... damn. Uh... let's see..." As he continued to search, the cashier let out a heavy, long-suffering sigh. 

"Well, here's--okay, I think I have enough for at least just the sammich," the man said, clutching a dollar bill and a random assortment of coins. His wild, staring grin was accentuated by an uncontrollable jittering that made his entire body twitch and the coins in his fist jangle quietly, until he dumped them on the counter. 

Poking at the money, the employee counted slowly, mouthing the numbers. Then he looked up and shook his head. "Sorrysir you don't have enough for a chicken sammich, you're sixteen cents short." 

The pale man's grin began to falter. "Sixteen... you're kidding me. Just... just give me a chicken sammich. Please??"

"Sorrysir you don't have enough I don't make the rules please step aside," the cashier said in a monotone drone. 

By this time the grin had vanished completely, replaced with a wide-eyed grimace. "You fool," he hissed, pointing at the employee. "I see... I will have to take matters... into my own hands." Reaching into his pocket, he produced the yellow sphere again, and stroked its small, smooth head with one finger. "Pacmurdermech... it's all up to you, now. LUNCHTIME!"

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry. I don't have any excuses or justifications. Something is obviously terribly wrong with me. Especially because I find this story hilarious. Also, this is an absolutely rough first draft, but I'm posting it here as it is because somebody actually wanted to read it, and I'm not sure I'll ever give it a proper proofreading. Also x3, yes, this is in reference to the Chick-Fil-A shenanigans, and JhonenV's Twitter feed.


End file.
